Page 8 of Faking the Rules

Brady looks between us, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Say no more. But you owe me, Wolfe. Mason's coordination is shit after three beers."

As he walks away, Declan's hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers with casual intimacy. "Dance with me?"

"I don't dance," I protest automatically.

"Everyone dances," he counters, already leading me toward the cleared space in the living room where bodies move together in various states of rhythm and inebriation. "Even serious literature majors."

Before I can formulate a properly scathing response, we're in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, and Declan's hands settle on my hips, guiding me to sway with the music. The bassthrobs around us, the press of bodies creating a strange intimacy despite the crowd.

"Relax," he murmurs, leaning close so I can hear him over the music. "You look like you're being tortured."

"This isn't exactly my scene," I admit, tentatively placing my hands on his shoulders. The solid warmth of him under my palms is distracting.

"No? What is your scene, Gardner? Libraries at midnight? Coffee shops at dawn? Secret poetry readings in underground bunkers?"

There's no malice in his teasing, just a genuine curiosity that softens my reflexive defensiveness. "Something like that," I concede. "Though I draw the line at underground bunkers. The ventilation is terrible."

His laugh is warm, rich, nothing like the calculated charm I've seen him deploy on others. "There she is. I was wondering if you had a sense of humor hidden under all that academic intensity."

"I'm hilarious," I deadpan. "It's just that most of my jokes require a working knowledge of nineteenth-century literature."

"Try me," he challenges, his hands shifting slightly on my hips, drawing me closer as the song changes to something slower, more intimate.

The question catches me off guard. Most people don't actually want to hear my esoteric literary references. But the genuine interest in Declan's eyes makes me brave.

"Why did Charles Dickens keep a pet raven?" I ask.

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because he wanted to write with a dark quill."

It's a terrible joke, the kind that makes most people groan or stare at me blankly. But Declan's face splits into a genuine grin, followed by a laugh that seems to start somewhere deep in his chest.

"That's awful," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Truly, spectacularly bad."

"I know," I admit, unexpectedly pleased by his reaction. "I have dozens more."

"Save them," he says, still smiling. "Parcel them out slowly. I'm not sure my literary heart can take too many at once."

Something shifts between us then—a moment of connection that feels too real for the performance we're supposedly engaged in. His eyes drop briefly to my lips, a question forming in them that sends heat spiraling through my body.

Then someone bumps into us hard, breaking the moment. A drunk fraternity brother, red-faced and swaying, mutters an apology before staggering away.

"Want to get some air?" Declan asks, his voice slightly rough.

I nod, suddenly desperate for space to breathe, to think. He keeps hold of my hand as he leads me through the crowded house, nodding to people who call his name but not stopping. We emerge onto a back porch, the February night air sharp and clarifying after the stuffy heat of the party.

Only a few people are braving the cold—a couple locked in an embrace against the railing, a small group huddled around a patio heater. Declan guides me to a relatively private corner, his body angled to block the worst of the wind.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod, taking a deep breath of cold air. "Thanks."

He studies me, something contemplative in his expression. "Can I ask you something, Gardner?"

"You just did."

He rolls his eyes at my pedantry but presses on. "Why did you agree to this? The fake relationship. You could have just said no, told me to figure out my own problems."

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